


Ennui

by sunshinestealer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 06:06:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5901175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinestealer/pseuds/sunshinestealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the Condesce can feel bored, tired and angry at her existence. More so the former.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ennui

It’s good to have some alone time every once in a while, especially if you’re the ‘evil’ queen of an intergalactic empire that is now in ruins because of some stupid, meddling children playing a stupid, _stupid_ game.

This indentured servitude to Lord English takes a toll on the mind and spirit, and it’s hard to believe she was stupid enough to agree in the first place. Well, excepting the chance to conquer new worlds and star systems, and to even rule over them as a goddess.

Being in power for such a long time, one can’t help but notice the changing sentiments of the people. At one point, prior to being quite so brutal with her reign, approval ratings sank into almost negative numbers. Switching to sheer, bloody violence and keeping up a cultural hegemony of kill-or-be-killed through the media and through school-feeding has kept the Condesce’s approval rating constant, without the need to come and visit the little people. Not that that would be easy, travelling to Earth, pushing the poor Helmsman to his limits…

Even a monster such as herself can feel the pain of the adored pet who lost his mind and needed to be culled. Except with every touch, you were bringing him back from death’s door and into a place of extreme agony. The culling fork eventually got the job done. Quite messily, in fact.

She sighs as she sinks down into a chair. Not a throne, simply a chair. The goggles come off, and she kneads the spot between her eyes and nasal cavity, to soothe an oncoming headache. Learning all the abilities of psychic trolls, from low-bloods to cobalts and clown cultists had certainly taken its toll.

Removing her tiara, she takes it in her left hand, using her right to tug out a little piece of her jumpsuit so the tiara can get a little bit of TLC. Its golden hue is decidedly less pronounced these days.

This is possibly one of the few areas aboard the ship that isn’t littered with the corpses of trolls, bleeding from every orifice after the psychic shockwave. Nameless, faceless guards and cooks and engineers and infantry-trolls and clown chaplains and captains and lieutenants and legislacerators, every troll of every considerable occupation. Even a few jades aboard — tall, elfin creatures who often occupied the on-board laboratories to study the habits of Mother Grubs and how to keep them healthy on different planets. Or, if worst came to worst, bio-engineering other lusii to be able to bring a clutch of troll eggs to term.

That’s not going to happen any more. The trolls are dead, just as the Helmsman had predicted in some garbled rant while the Empress took some wicked glee in soothing him like they were pale-mates. No trolls are going to survive, and it’s only through Lord English’s intervention (or whatever cryptic shit his Handmaid had to explain when she first introduced herself) that there’ll be another universe for trolls to conquer.

There’s been enough failure, especially with Earth. Enough seeding planets with lusus naturae, raising water levels, killing those who questioned her rule and planting ridiculous political puppets just for the fun of it. Enough masquerading (through psychic deception) as a lovely if shrewd and calculating businesswoman with two adorable adoptive children. (Even if one of the little ingrates was ungrateful enough to run away.) Enough of tossing those idiotic Carapacians off the ship and onto the planet’s surface, watching as the resourceful little buggers made their own little colonies and chittered with each other, even teaching younger humans how to converse with them.

It’s tiresome. But as they say, there ain’t no rest for the wicked.

The Condesce unsheathes her culling fork, and uses it to help her get up from her sitting position. She places her tiara back on with the help of a conveniently-placed mirror, and sets out.

A cadre of young trolls and humans (and even some overly friendly Carapacians) had survived the Vast Glub through that silly game, eh?

Time to make a few ungrateful children pay.


End file.
